Buttertea at Sunrise Read Online Free PDF

metres high, Mongar’s bazaar oversees the valley behind me. The far edge of the football field also offers an unobstructed outlook over Mongar Hospital. Below a protruding hilltop, which serves as an emergency helicopter pad, the green roof of the hospital is sheltered amongst big leafy trees. The building is designed in a square, hollowed by an enclosed courtyard, with the glassy dome of the operation theatre sticking up in the far corner. Behind the hospital, the road disappears in the trees and emerges further down at an open space, lined with many separate staff buildings. Construction noise fills the air.
    I cross the field and arrive at a set of steep steps at the base of the bazaar’s fortification. The houses of the bazaar line a muddy road cut into the hillside. There are three ‘hotels’
    for ‘Fooding and Lodging’, and shops open their doors on the ground floors of the remaining buildings. Every shop 29
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    B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E
    has a number and a name printed in bold white letters on a blue sign. The upper words must be written in Dzongkha, the beautiful Bhutanese script. Underneath English translations inform me about the shop and its owner: Shop No. 4, Dechen Lhendrup; Shop No. 6, Karma Yeshey;
    Shop No. 7, Dorji Choden. Unsure of whether to turn to Dechen, Karma or Dorji, I postpone my shopping for a closer inspection.
    The buildings are magnificent works of art. Wooden beams frame white stones, and the second floor projects like a gallery, supported on wooden pillars. Trefoil-style window frames are carved in smooth arches, painted with flowers, jewels and other auspicious designs. The walls leading up to overhanging roofs are also carefully carved in intricate trims and painted in joyous colours and patterns.
    A few windows have iron grids shaped in a traditional endless knot or a wheel.
    Cautiously stepping over the threshold into the first shop, I find myself in a dark room with one naked bulb throwing a gloomy light on shelves of non-perishable items, cheap reproduction clothes, plastic ware, flashlights, pots, matches, coke bottles, boxes with nails and other hardware.
    Wire baskets hanging from the ceiling are filled with spicy potato chips, sandals, Tupperware, soap containers, string and packets of Maggi noodles. A big barrel with lentils stands on the floor, the one beside it contains dried beans.
    Huge sacks of rice and flour are opened, but no sign indicates the cost. A basket contains some bruised bananas and green, pear-like fruit.
    ‘ Kuzuzang po la !’
    The man behind the counter speaks in a heavy slur and seems to suck on something in his mouth. Then his lips part and reveal black-stained teeth between dark red gums.
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    F R O M A D I S T A N C E
    He looks at me with interest, continuing to wrap a broad green leaf into a tiny package.
    ‘ Kuzuzang po la !’ he repeats loudly and waves me with a huge hand towards him. His lips part even further and dark red juice collects in a little pool on his lower lip. His greying beard is patchy and equally stained, and the stare of his small eyes is disconcerting even if friendly. Suddenly he coughs and in one unexpected agile movement, turns and spits noisily into the darkness behind the counter. Too intimidated to even offer a courteous greeting, I flee the store.
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    C H A P T E R T H R E E
    First
    Encounters
    My third day in Mongar begins with a visit to the
    weekly Sunday ‘subjee bazaar’, the vegetable
    market. As Pema had advised me, at 8 a.m. sharp
    I head up the road to the ‘market’ – a fancy name for a muddy patch of grass where farmers unload their crops on the ground. To me,